


when september rolls around

by somehowunbroken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Road Trips, irredeemable fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5953774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not, Mitch reflects, like this is actually the end of an era.</p><p>(In which there's a lot of thinking about the future, and a lot of living in the present. And a lot of American Revolutionary landmarks, but those aren't Mitch's fault, not really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when september rolls around

**Author's Note:**

> most of the alpha reader comments on this are some variation of my name in capslock, the word "WHY," and the memorable phrase "jesus fuck, why did I encourage this, who let you have a keyboard." there was also "have I ever mentioned that you're my favorite?" so that should help.
> 
> it's... not actually sad? but. there are FEELINGS. you've been warned, i suppose.
> 
> title is from "[the field behind the plow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUM8mXJre1c)" by stan rogers, which is, yes, about farming, but is also very much about how things change and things also stay the same, and there's work to be done in each of those things, and how thre's always reason for hope. look, see:  
>   
>  _for the good times come and go_  
>  _but at least there's rain_  
>  _so this won't be barren ground_  
>  _when september rolls around_
> 
> look it's applicable **_fight me_**

It's not, Mitch reflects, like this is actually the end of an era.

It feels that way. Everything in the last few months has felt too surreal to be true when he looks back on it; everything leading up to the draft, graduating high school, the draft itself. Going fourth overall isn't like going first, but he's known for years that he'd have to fight with every ounce of himself just to be taken as a serious contender for the top ten. Going to the Leafs is -- sometimes he Googles his own draft coverage, because it's four minutes of solid proof that he didn't dream the whole thing up. There's no way that he would've dreamed bringing Dylan into the conversation when nobody had brought him up before, anyway, even if the sight of himself in a Leafs jersey still gives him chills. (Dylan's one of the best friends he's ever had, but that doesn't keep him from laughing at Mitch every time he remembers the whole interview.)

They're all spending time together this summer, the GTA boys. Dylan's really serious about his ball hockey, like he always has been, and it's a lot of fun to watch Connor try to play defense while Dylan sits in goal, or to steal the puck away from Dylan's little brother and feed it up to Connor for a perfect slapper into an empty net. It's hockey, it's all hockey, but Mitch is mentally cataloguing as much of it as he can.

It'll be different after the end of the summer, is all.

Mitch isn't under any illusions about what the next year is going to hold for him. Connor, Jack; they're going to be waved straight into the lineup. Dylan too, probably, and maybe some of the other guys in the top ten, but Mitch knows there are comments about his size, his strength, what another year in the O might help him gain. He'd love to walk onto the Leafs, but he knows it's not going to happen that way.

It's fine, honestly. He's made up his mind that he's not going to be bitter about it. Guys get sent back to the O all the time and go on to have amazing careers; he'll have one last run for the Mem Cup with his boys on the Knights, and then he'll take the big show by storm. There's a good chance he'll be captaining this year, too, and he can't deny that it'd mean something to him, to take on that responsibility and wear his team's trust on his chest.

That doesn't mean he doesn't want to miraculously make it. Of course he wants it; Mitch just tries to be as realistic as possible when it comes to his future. Better to be overwhelmingly surprised when something goes better than expected than to get crushed when everything goes wrong.

And besides, another year in London means another year with the guys he knows and trusts. It's not that he doesn't think he'll develop that same kind of relationship with guys on the Leafs; it's hockey, and learning to adapt to new people is essential. It's just that sometimes he looks at the guys in London and wonders what it'll be like to face off against them all the time, to have the weight of the Leafs' expectations on his back as he fights against guys who know him better than almost anyone else on the planet.

He doesn't envy Dylan and Connor that, not at all. He's always loved going up against both of them; they're two of his favorite people off the ice, and he knows just how to needle them on the ice to make things amazing. Dylan and Connor, though, they've never had to stare each other down and box away their friendship for the sake of their respective teams, not in a game where it really counted. Mitch honestly isn't sure how that's gonna play out.

It's really easy to see when they're all hanging out together. Connor and Dylan are the kind of friends who can finish each other's sentences; it would've been intimidating to try to get in on that friendship if Mitch were a man less dedicated to his chosen tasks. It's comfortable now, the three of them kicking back and carefully talking around the end of the summer, but as much as they mean to Mitch and he knows he means to them, he doesn't have the kind of closeness that they have. There are parts of Dylan that will always be Connor's, and there are parts of Dylan that will just always be _Connor_. It's just as true the other way around. They're both fucking amazing hockey players, but Mitch has no idea how they're going to forget about their shared history when they're staring at each other across the puck.

Part of Mitch wants to ask them, but his more reasonable side wins that fight, which is probably for the best. They're not talking about it. They're not talking about anything.

"We should do something," Connor says one night. They're in his parents' backyard, the three of them squashed into two lounge chairs on the lawn. Hilariously, Dylan's in the middle; Mitch is half on top of Dylan just to keep from getting shoved off the side, and he's pretty sure Connor's doing the same thing. "The three of us. Before things get crazy."

Mitch cranes his neck so he can look at Connor. "I thought we weren't talking about it," he says. A glance at Dylan's face reveals that, yeah, he'd thought so, too. "Are we talking about it?"

Connor lets out a breath. "We're all going to be in different places once the season starts," he says. It's a fact and they all know it: Edmonton isn't going to let go of Connor once he reports for camp. He can't possibly have a camp bad enough to get sent back down to Erie, not with how much they need him and all the hype around him. Whether Dylan and Mitch make their respective teams or not, Connor's moving on.

"So you want to do something," Dylan says. He shifts a little and their precarious chair situation creaks ominously. Mitch clings closer, more because he's pretty sure he can use Dylan as a landing pad if the whole thing breaks than because he thinks it's actually going to keep him from ending up on the ground eventually.

"It's just a thought," Connor says after a moment. "I mean, I don't even know what we would do."

Mitch drums his fingers on Dylan's ribs. "Road trip," he says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, the rest of the idea follows: pack up for a few days, maybe a week, however much time Connor can spare; get in the car and head south. Boston's not that far. "We can go bug Hanny and Eichs for a little while."

"Yes," Dylan crows immediately. He'd developed some kind of fascination with petting Noah's hair at the draft; Mitch is pretty sure it's an even split between it being really soft and the way it had made Jack's face do the splotchy terrible blushing thing. "Oh my god, let's do it."

"A road trip," Connor says. His fingers brush along Mitch's where they're settled on Dylan's chest. "I don't know if that's the best idea ever, or something that's going to lead to our agents all dumping us because we got arrested in America."

"Only one way to find out," Mitch says. He can feel the grin stretching across his face.

Connor laughs quietly. "I guess you're right."

"Yes," Dylan shouts. He twists to free his arm for a fistpump, which is why both Connor and Mitch land on him a few seconds later as the chairs finally give up the fight.

-0-

It all comes together much more quickly than Mitch thought it would. The summer's only going to get busier the longer they wait, so they take a day to organise their schedules and to make sure that Jack and Noah are free, and then they get into Mitch's car and head south.

"I still can't believe you have the biggest car out of the three of us," Dylan mutters. He's the sore loser in the backseat, mostly because Mitch finds it hilarious to shove him back there and listen to him bitch about how his limbs aren't meant to fit in backseats.

"Kick your shoes off and stretch out sideways," Connor says with way more patience than Dylan maybe deserves. "Marns already said you could as long as you don't get dirt on the seats."

Mitch doesn't actually care about the dirt; his car has seen a lot worse than the bottom of Dylan's shoes. It's mostly the principle of seeing how much he can get away with when it comes to pushing Dylan around. He has yet to find the limit, and it's getting to the point where he's a little afraid to keep pushing, in case he finds out there isn't one.

"I'm taller than both of you put together," Dylan whines, even as Mitch hears him shifting around to do as Connor said. "Why am I even in the back?"

"Because I'm driving," Mitch says. "And I like Davo better today."

"You're the worst," Dylan announces. "Are we there yet?"

Mitch sees Connor glance back. "I can still see your house from here, Stromer."

"I know," Dylan says. "But are we _there_ yet?"

"New plan," Mitch says to Connor as they head towards the highway. "We dump Stromer in the lake and pretend we forgot him when Hanny asks where he is."

In reply, Connor holds his hand up for a high-five. Dylan bitches from the backseat, but it's easy enough for Mitch to tune out the words and just let the sound wash over him as he drives, the push and pull of Dylan and Connor's conversation, the way they make space for him in it but don't force him to take it. It's reliable, comfortable, and Mitch is glad he thought of doing this, and they're not even out of the GTA yet.

They stop just over the border in Buffalo, and Dylan holds his hand out for the keys after they raid the rest stop for snacks. "My turn," he says, waggling his fingers.

Mitch makes a face. "I'm not tired."

"I don't care," Dylan says, shrugging. "We said we'd split driving. I'm sick of the back. Stick Davo back there if you want, but I need out."

"I'm going to fall asleep and you know it," Mitch mutters.

Dylan's face softens a little. "Yeah, well, grab my pillow out of the back," he says lightly. "I tossed it on the top of all our shit, so you don't even have to go digging."

"Maybe you're not the worst," Mitch concedes, handing the keys over.

"Why are you going to fall asleep?" Connor asks, looking back and forth between them.

"Defense mechanism," Dylan and Mitch answer in unison. When Connor just blinks, Mitch goes on. "I used to get carsick as a kid, and going to sleep meant not puking. If I'm not driving, I'm sleeping."

"How?" Connor asks, sounding a little awed. "How do you not get, like, drawn all over?"

Mitch grins sharply as Dylan laughs and answers for him. "Marns is mean," he says approvingly, slinging an arm around Mitch's shoulders. "One of the guys at Hockey Canada camp tried it and regretted it pretty much instantly."

"He only tried it once," Mitch says smugly. "I have my ways, Davo."

Connor laughs and Dylan's arm squeezes around Mitch's shoulders as they walk back towards the car. Dylan climbs right into the driver's seat and puts the seat all the way back, in his element as he bitches about Mitch's short legs. Mitch leans over the seat to grab Dylan's pillow and the blanket he's put right under it, and is surprised when he looks up to find Connor climbing into the other side of the back. "Uh," he says. "What, does Stromer smell worse than normal?"

"I will wreck this car," Dylan threatens.

Connor shrugs and smiles, a little sheepish. "Come on," he says, tugging the pillow out of Mitch's hands and settling it in his lap. He pats it invitingly. "If you're gonna sleep, you might as well be a little comfortable."

"Aw, Davo-bed," Dylan says from the front. "Take advantage while you can, Marns. It's way more comfortable than leaning up against the window."

"He would know," Connor says, smiling as Mitch decides, fuck it, he's going for it. He has to crawl across the seat, which is a little awkward, but he gets his head settled on the pillow and curls his feet up on the seat. He pokes his feet out to rest against the door, which is when he realises he never closed it.

Mitch groans and goes to unfold himself, but Connor catches his shoulder and a second later Dylan catches his feet and pushes them gently onto the seat. He grabs the blanket and tosses it so it unfolds and mostly covers Mitch, then shuts the door and climbs back into the driver's seat, tossing a smile back at them. "We ready?"

Mitch hadn't even heard him get out of the car. Maybe he's more tired than he thought. "Ready," he says, because he's not sure how to say thanks without making it weird.

Connor nods, one hand still on Mitch's shoulder, and when Dylan navigates them back onto the highway, his other hand slips almost hesitantly into Mitch's hair and starts running through the strands.

Mitch is out like a light between one breath and the next.

-0-

"Hey," someone whispers. "Hey, Marns."

Mitch means to wake up and answer, but he's warm and he's comfortable, and he's also very much not a morning person. He manages a noise, but that's it.

"Mitch," someone says, not far from his face, and Mitch blinks his eyes open and focuses as well as he can. Connor is smiling down at him, an open, fond expression, and Mitch smiles back before his brain catches up to the situation and, right. They must be at the next rest stop.

"How far?" he asks, yawning. 

"We're about an hour from Albany," Dylan says. "Stretch time, and then I'll swap with Davo and you can pass out again."

"I should drive," Mitch says, forcing himself to sit up and pop his back. It makes a nice, satisfying crunching noise, and Mitch snickers at the face Connor makes. "If I sleep any more, I won't sleep tonight, and it'll fuck me up for a week."

"I'm driving," Connor says, frowning. "It's my turn."

Mitch wants to protest, but Connor just let him sleep on his legs for three hours; he probably owes it to Connor to just let him drive. "Don't bitch at me when I can't sleep later," he warns as they get out of the car.

Dylan bumps against his side as they walk inside. "You, me, _Draw Something_ tournament," he says. "And this is challenge mode, 'cause with Davo driving, we're gonna hit every pothole between here and Hanny's house."

"Hey!" Connor objects, then seems to consider it. "I mean, I'll try not to?"

"Challenge accepted," Mitch says, grinning.

Connor's one of the most careful drivers that Mitch has ever been in a car with; he still manages to somehow swerve into nearly every pothole in the road, just as Dylan had predicted. It takes Mitch and Dylan a solid fifteen minutes to get him to stop apologising every time he does it, and Mitch is pretty sure he only stops because Dylan threatens to tell all of Connor's future Oilers teammates how ticklish he is.

 _Draw Something_ loses its appeal about an hour in; they're both pretty bad at it, and there's only so long they can laugh at the terrible prompts and worse attempts at drawing them before it gets old. Connor finds a radio station playing ridiculous kids' songs, and they spend the half hour before they lose the station alternately laughing at and being horrified by the music.

"Are we close?" Dylan asks when something that is honest to god titled "Big Kids Scare the Heck Outta Me" fades into static. "Not that you aren't thrilling company, but I would really love to get out of this car and not have to get right back into it."

"We're, like, an hour and a half from Hanny's," Connor says. "You gonna make it, or do I find a lake so we can go with Marns' plan from before?"

"Oh, fuck off," Dylan retorts. "Maybe I'll take a nap. You gonna be my sofa, Marns?"

Mitch considers it. "Sure," he says, shrugging. "Get your pillow."

Dylan studies him dubiously. "Are you gonna fall asleep on me?"

"It's possible," Mitch says. "Probably the window, though. Still." He pats his lap. "You know you wanna."

"You love car sleeping," Connor adds when Dylan doesn't make a move. "Just go to sleep, Dyls. I promise I'll wake you up if anything exciting happens."

"What could possibly be exciting driving through Massachusetts?" Dylan wonders.

"Exactly," Connor says firmly. "Sleep."

"Fine," Dylan says, and Mitch bites his lip to keep from grinning at how hilariously grumpy he is. Dylan reaches over the seat to grab his pillow and blanket, and in no time at all, he's on his back with his head on the pillow in Mitch's lap, staring up at him. "Hi, Marns."

"Sleep works better with your eyes closed," Mitch says mildly. "You might want to try it."

"Maybe I just want to stare at you, you ever think of that?" Dylan shoots back, then blinks several times. "Wait. Wait, no, that's the worst comeback in the world."

"No takebacks," Mitch says. "It's out there. Davo heard it. Right, Davo?"

"Sorry, bud," Connor says. "You totally said it."

"No," Dylan whines, closing his eyes. "You're both hallucinating. I didn't."

"Shh," Mitch orders. Dylan makes a face without opening his eyes, and Mitch hesitates, fingers hovering a few inches above Dylan's head, before he lets himself push his fingers through Dylan's hair, just as Connor had done for him earlier. Dylan makes a soft, surprised noise and pushes his head up as if on instinct, so Mitch forces himself to relax and keep his hand moving.

Dylan's face goes sleep-soft in no time at all, but Mitch keeps petting through his hair anyway. It's longer than it had been at the draft, curling a little at the ends now that it's not cropped so close to his head. Mitch is a little mesmerised with the way it feels; he watches the way Dylan's hair rises and falls as he moves his fingers.

"Is he out?" Connor asks softly.

Mitch startles a little and looks up to met Connor's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Yeah. I didn't know he was actually tired; I kinda just thought he was fucking with me."

Connor laughs a little. "Never underestimate Stromer's ability to sleep on command," he advises. "This isn't even close to the weirdest time or place he's passed out."

"He slept in his stall for a little while during Hockey Canada camp," Mitch volunteers. "I'll believe pretty much anything after that. His face was shoved into his nasty practice jersey."

"We found him in the bathtub on an overnight in Guelph once," Connor says. "Nobody had any clue how he ended up in there. Including him."

"Amazing," Mitch says, rolling his eyes. He looks back down at Dylan just in time to see his eyelids flutter. He stills his hand, not wanting to wake Dylan up, but Dylan just sighs and turns until his face is pressed into Mitch's stomach and his arm is wriggled between Mitch and the seat.

He doesn't wake up.

"Uh," Mitch says, sort of impressed.

Connor snorts. "He's also a sleep octopus." He pauses and checks his mirrors or something, Mitch doesn't know. "You can shove him off if you want, though. He'll sleep through it."

"Eh," Mitch says vaguely.

"Yeah," Connor agrees quietly. "I never did, either."

Mitch looks at the back of Connor's head for a little while, but he doesn't say anything else or turn around, so Mitch eventually looks back down at the side of Dylan's face. He sighs after a moment and threads his fingers back into Dylan's hair. Maybe he can catch a little bit more sleep before they get to Noah's.

-0-

Dylan wakes up with less than half an hour left in the drive. Mitch is a little afraid it's going to be weird, but he just pushes his face against Mitch's shirt and squeezes Mitch's hip for a second before sitting up and rubbing at his face. "Ugh," he says blearily.

"Good nap, bud?" Connor asks.

"Good nap," Dylan replies. He gives Mitch a sleepy smile. "Marns is a pretty decent bed."

"I try," Mitch says dryly. "Everyone needs a fallback career, right? Maybe I can make 'portable bed substitute' into a career."

"I'll endorse you," Dylan promises. He reaches out to ruffle Mitch's hair. Mitch isn't sure why he lets him, but he doesn't move away.

"We should text Hanny and Eichs," Connor says. "We're getting pretty close."

"On it," Mitch says. Jack is in his phone as _MASTER OF SASS_ ; it comes before Noah's _NO NO NOAHHHH_ , so he taps on Jack's name and types a quick message. It doesn't take long for Jack to reply, a confirmation of the address and a quick _ordering pizza DON'T BITCH UR EATING IT_ that Mitch replies to with a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else.

"Everything good?" Connor asks.

"We're eating pizza," Mitch says. "And I'm pretty sure the message about not bitching about it was directed at you, Davo, so I'm passing it along."

"I eat pizza," Connor objects.

Mitch raises his hands. "I'm just the messenger," he says. "Take it up with Eichs."

"Maybe I will," Connor says.

Dylan looks at Mitch and raises an eyebrow. "He won't," he stage-whispers.

"I know," Mitch whispers back.

"I'm dumping both of you in the harbor," Connor mutters. "There's one of those around here, right? And it's a thing to dump people in it."

"I'm pretty sure it's not a _thing_ to dump people in the harbor," Mitch says. "I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"No way," Connor insists. "There was some… thing. During the American Revolution. I'm pretty sure people got thrown in the harbor."

Mitch looks at Dylan, who mouths _he just plays hockey_ and shrugs. Mitch doesn't even try to keep himself from laughing, and Dylan grins while Connor pouts at both of them in the mirror.

"Okay, Davo," Mitch says, still laughing. "Tell you what, if you drive us to the harbor, you can shove us both in and see if it's actually a thing."

"Maybe I will," Connor says archly.

"You do that, buddy," Dylan says, patting Connor's shoulder. "Or, like, we could ask Eichs. He lives here; he's probably up on all the local harbor-related shit, I'm sure."

Connor perks up. "Yes," he declares. "Yeah. We're asking Eichs about the harbor. There's definitely something with the harbor."

 _Hope you know your Boston history davo's got questions_ , Mitch texts. _Harbor questions._

 _FUCK YES_ , Jack texts back.

"Uh," Mitch says, staring at his phone as the little "I'm typing, wait for it" dots show up. "Asking Eichs might be a mistake. Also, relatedly, it might be too late to not make that mistake."

"I don't want to know," Dylan says, looking a little alarmed.

"Too late," Mitch says, leaning in so Dylan can see his phone.

_I KNOW SO FUCKING MUCH ABOUT BOSTON HISTORY YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW_

_And hannys boring he already knows this shit but were all going on a ROAD TRIP even hanny he can deal_

_Fuck yes my TIME HAS COME_

"We're doomed," Dylan predicts. "Davo. This is your fault, and we're all doomed."

Connor stops at a stop sign and turns to face them. "It's not too late to turn around," he says. "We can say we got lost or something. There was an emergency."

Mitch opens his mouth, but Google Maps chirps up from Connor's phone. "Take the next left," it says, "and your destination will be on the left."

There's a moment of silence as they all stare at the phone. Finally, Dylan repeats, "We're _doomed_ ," and Mitch laughs as Connor sighs and makes the turn.

Noah's house is nice, Mitch thinks as they park on the street. It's very Noah in some way; it's easy to imagine him playing ball hockey in the driveway, or dragging his gear bag through the front door. There's a small collection of hockey sticks in various sizes set near the garage, and Mitch can almost see Noah picking one of them up, passing the smaller ones around to the kids who drop in during the summer, leaning over to correct someone's hold or their shot or their balance.

"Yo," Mitch hears, and he shakes himself a little as he looks back to the front of the house. Jack is standing in the doorway, waving at them. "You gonna stay in the car the whole time?"

"We could still leave," Connor hisses.

"This was your idea," Dylan points out. "Get your shit together, bud." He claps Connor on the shoulder and opens the door. "Hey, Eichs!" he says, and Mitch watches as he grabs Jack in a bear hug and lifts him off his feet.

"If you actually want to leave," Mitch starts, but Connor waves him off.

"Just give me a minute," he sighs. "Go say hi. Make Stromer come back out and grab his own shit, because I'm not lugging it in for him."

Mitch tosses him a salute. "Aye aye," he says, and makes a point of going to the back of the car to grab his bag before following Dylan up into the house.

"Marns," Jack asys, making grabby hands until Mitch drops his stuff and leans in for the hug. "Save me from Stromer. He's terrible."

"You're the worst," Dylan retorts, poking his head into one of the doors down the hallway. "Where's Hanny?"

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Talking Coyle into buying us alcohol. Where's your significant otter?"

"My significant-" Dylan chokes out, laughing. "That's fucking awful." He sounds delighted.

"He's still in the car," Mitch says. "Stromer, go get your bag. Davo says he's not carrying it for you."

"Davo lies," Dylan says seriously. "Watch. Give it, like, three minutes."

"Otter friends," Jack says. "Don't you need to, like, touch paws every few minutes? I'm pretty sure that was in the documentary."

"Fuck off," Dylan says cheerily.

Jack's eyes widen and he looks back out the door. "Oh my god, wait, is he gonna float away? That's the saddest fucking thing, Stromer. You're evil."

"Your poor significant otter," Mitch adds, and Dylan rolls his eyes at them both. "You should go rescue him."

"It's a street, not a stream," Dylan grumbles, but he heads back out the door to get his bag anyway.

Mitch holds out his hand for a high-five, and Jack doesn't disappoint. "Welcome to Boston," he says, grinning. "Or, well. Close enough to Boston. Welcome to Hanny's."

"Thanks, Eichs," Mitch says, shouldering his bag as Connor and Dylan walk back up to the house, each carrying their own bags. "Glad we got here in one piece."

"Was that in doubt?" Jack says, jerking his chin in Connor's direction. Connor waves a hand in response, and Jack leads them through the house and down into the basement.

"Everyone almost got thrown into more than one body of water," Dylan says. "Apparently America does that."

"We do _not_ ," Jack says, clearly offended. "Wait, is this the Boston thing?" He turns to Connor and points at him. "Did you fuck up the Boston Tea Party?"

"They threw people in!" Connor exclaims, dropping his bag and collapsing onto the sofa. "There was a whole thing in junior year history."

"Davo," Jack says. "They didn't throw _people_ into the harbor during the Boston Tea Party. They threw _tea_. It's in the name."

"But," Connor splutters.

Mitch ruffles Connor's hair. "It's okay," he says. "At least you're good at hockey, right?"

"It's not the Boston People Party," Jack goes on, apparently in disbelief. "What the fuck."

"What the fuck," Noah repeats, sounding like a herd of elephants as he clomps down the stairs. "What are we what the fuck-ing at, Eichs?"

"Davo's shitty recollection of the American Revolution," Dylan says.

Noah groans. "Oh, no. You guys didn't."

"I have a plan," Jack says, grinning evilly. "You guys don't even know. It's going to be amazing."

Dylan looks from Noah's face to Jack's and back again before groaning loudly. "We're doomed," he says, with more certainty than he had in the car, and Noah just nods along.

-0-

Jack's plan is to pack them all in cars the next day and take them to Lexington and Concord.

"What the fuck," Mitch asks, bewildered, as Jack gleefully herds them towards his and Noah's cars. "Are we doing some sort of, like, American history tour? Can I opt out?"

"The Shot Heard 'Round the World," Jack intones, shoving Mitch into Noah's passenger's seat. "I cannot believe I get to, like, actually tour guide this. Today is the best."

"I'm going to kill Davo," Mitch mutters. "With a spoon. Slowly. This is his fault."

"Technically," Connor says, voice raised as he gets sardined into the back of Jack's car, "you were the first one to bring up throwing someone into a lake."

"You brought up the harbor," Mitch yells as Jack shuts Connor's door. Mitch turns to Noah. "Hanny. Tell me this isn't going to be exactly like I think it's going to be."

"Sorry, bro," Noah says, making a face. "You should've asked me about the harbor thing. I could have called Davo an idiot over text, cleared the whole thing up, and we'd be inside playing Xbox right now."

"Fuck," Mitch says, leaning back against the seat. "He's not gonna be like this the whole time we're here, is he?" They have five days before they have to head back; Mitch would rather not spend them all traipsing around the historical sites of a country he's not even from.

"No," Noah says immediately. "I told him he gets today and, if you guys don't get heatstroke, half of tomorrow."

"Heatstroke," Mitch repeats, horrified.

Noah jerks his chin at the back of the car. "You saw me load the cooler, Marns," he says. "Gatorade. Just in case. Eichs goddamned loves his guided history tours."

"Should I get heatstroke?" Mitch wonders aloud. "Like, is it self-defense if I skip the Gatorade and pass out?"

"You will wake up in a sink in a public outdoor restroom," Noah says grimly. "The choice is yours."

"That's disgusting," Mitch says, appalled. Then a thought occurs to him. "Wait, have you-"

"I've heard stories," Noah says darkly. "Just drink your fucking Gatorade, Marner."

"Right," Mitch says.

The drive isn't bad; Noah's a good driver, careful hands at ten and two, and he doesn't bitch when Mitch can't settle on a radio station. He follows Jack's car up the highway, and Mitch is glad for the quiet; he doesn't envy anyone in the other car. He can only imagine the way Jack and Connor are winding each other up, and Dylan is more likely to egg them on than calm them down.

"Chances they kill each other before we get there?" Mitch asks about fifteen minutes in.

Noah hums a little. "We're about halfway there. It's too late to detour and throw anybody in the harbor without going really out of the way."

"Good to know," Mitch says. "There are other forms of murder, though."

The rest of the drive is spent coming up with crazier and crazier ways that things could get out of hand in Jack's car; Mitch is grinning ear to ear by the time they actually arrive.

Dylan takes one look at him and points. "I call dibs on Marns and Hanny's car or the ride back," he says. "Let them kill each other in peace."

"We're not going to kill each other," Jack says, climbing out of the driver's seat and twisting to pop his back. "We're buddies, right, Davo?"

"Sure," Connor says way too easily. "We're buddies. We definitely wouldn't kill each other."

Dylan walks over and slings an arm over Noah's shoulders. "Save me," he says. "Don't make me get back in the car with them, Hanny. Don't do that."

"It's like you've never seen a little friendly debate before, Stromer," Jack says.

"That wasn't friendly," Dylan says darkly, hugging Noah tighter. "I thought you were going to start punching each other. Right there on the highway."

"What the hell were you even talking about?" Mitch wonders. Jack's not exactly the most even-keeled guy, but Connor tends to be pretty hard to ruffle, unless it's about-

"Hockey," Jack and Connor say at the same time.

"Of course," Noah mutters. He wraps his arm around Dylan's waist and pulls him in, glaring at Jack. "Eichs. What did I say about hockey shit-talking?"

"Fuck you, it's not your car, that's what," Jack retorts. "My car, my rules, and my rules are that hockey shit-talking is the best."

"I don't mind it," Connor says. "Except, y'know, Eichs has wrong opinions."

"Excuse the _fuck_ out of you," Jack says, turning to glare at Connor. "You honestly, seriously believe that-"

"The Flyers are garbage," Mitch says loudly.

Silence. Then, Jack sighs. "Well, _obviously_ ," he says, and Connor nods.

"Anyway," Mitch says, turning back to survey their apparent destination. "Correct me if I'm wrong here, Eichs, but this looks like a lot of… nature."

"It's _history_ ," Jack stresses.

" _Outdoor_ history," Connor says a little gleefully. "Wait, are there snakes? Can we find Marns another snake friend?"

"They are wild animals," Jack hisses. "If you see snakes, leave them the fuck alone."

"But snakes," Mitch says, drawing it out into a whine. "Eichs. You gotta let me pet all the snakes."

"I will lock you in the car," Jack threatens. "With all the goddamned snakes. In Hanny's car."

Noah snorts. "Leave my car out of this."

"Let Stromer go," Jack says. "We've got a trail to hike."

"Hiking," Dylan repeats. He doesn't appear to be letting go of Noah anytime soon. "Today is just a whole bunch of things I wasn't expecting."

Jack claps his hands. "Okay, let's do this," he says. "There's an informational video about the whole battle that we're gonna watch at the visitor's center, and then we're gonna hike up to Hartwell Tavern for the ranger program."

"The what," Dylan says flatly.

Noah nudges him. "They fire muskets," he mutters, just as Jack says, "They _fire muskets_ ," in a way more excited tone of voice.

"Then we're going to North Bridge," Jack goes on. "There's another ranger program-"

"No," Noah interrupts. "You get one, Eichs. One ranger program. Pick now, or I will."

"Hanny," Jack protests, but Noah glares, and Jack sighs. "Fine. Fine, we'll just do the one at Hartwell. Happy?"

"Thrilled," Mitch answers for him. "This is gonna be… a thing that happens."

"I brought a phone charger," Connor announces. "I'm recording everything."

"Video evidence," Mitch says, nodding. "That'll be good."

"Or bad, depending on who gets caught doing what," Noah puts in. "Walden Pond is near here, in case you want another famous body of water to throw each other into."

"I'll add it to the list," Connor says. "Let's go watch Eichs' movie and hike to his tavern so we can drive to his bridge." He looks around. "On three?"

"One, two, three," they all shout before breaking and jogging towards the visitor's center.

Except for Jack, who just glowers at them before huffing and walking behind them at his own pace. Of course.

-0-

It's surprisingly not terrible.

The park itself is pretty nice, even if Mitch wouldn't admit to it under pain of being stuck in Jack and Connor's car on the ride home. The movie is at least moderately interesting; as the only person in the group who's never actually gone to any American school, it's mostly new to Mitch, so it keeps his interest. The same can't be said for Dylan and Noah, who have apparently decided that they're going to be Team Sticks Together for the day, and spend the whole time whispering to each other and pretty much sitting on top of each other. Jack keeps shooting glares at them, which Mitch figures is probably the point.

Dylan grabs for Mitch when they leave the visitor's center and start the two km hike to the Tavern. "Buddy system," he says insistently, still clutching Noah's hand with his other hand.

Mitch cuts a quick glance at Connor, who looks more amused than anything else, and Jack, who looks mutinous. It's an appropriate facial expression for this particular outing, honestly, so Mitch locks his fingers with Dylan's and swings their joined hands.

Connor doesn't even hesitate, reaching out and wiggling his fingers at Jack. "You don't want me to get lost, do you?" he asks innocently. "Imagine having to call Mark Messier to tell him you lost his new prospect in the wilds of Massachusetts, Eichs. _Imagine_."

"Oh my fucking god," Jack mutters, grabbing Connor's hand. "I hate every single one of you."

"But you're holding my hand," Connor says gleefully.

"Canada would kill me," Jack says. "As a country. They would all do the Transformer thing, become a giant maple leaf, and _murder_ my ass if you twisted your ankle or something."

"They might," Dylan agrees. "Oh, man, and _Gretzky_ would just, like. Stand outside your window and make sad faces at night."

"Crosby would be disappointed in you," Noah says solemnly. "You don't want that, do you?"

"I'm holding his hand, so all of you can fuck right off," Jack points out. "Shut up and hike."

It's a nice walk. It's hot out, but Noah is dragging his Gatorade cooler around with the hand that's not holding Dylan's, so they don't actually end up causing a medical emergency. Mitch is pretty sure they make a hilarious picture, but the trail is mostly empty; it's probably for the best, honestly, because that way there aren't any photos leaked of Mitch trying to pour Gatorade into Dylan's mouth because Dylan refuses to let go of either hand he's holding to do it himself, or of Connor making pleading puppy dog eyes at Jack when Jack drags him over to point at some historical marker on the walk, or of Dylan leaning over to press a smacking kiss to Noah's cheek when Noah wipes off some of the Gatorade that was the result of Mitch's less successful second attempt at sharing Gatorade.

The ranger program is… well, they go over a lot of the same stuff that had been in the movie, so Mitch's mind wanders. Noah somehow reclaimed his hand from Dylan and has wandered off to poke at Jack's face for reasons Mitch doesn't really want to understand, so Mitch leans into Dylan. "Hold me," he says, and Dylan slings an arm around his waist.

"Lean on me," he begins, and Mitch starts laughing.

"No, no, we've done this, you can't sing," he says, knocking his head against Dylan's chin. "There are children here. Don't do this to them."

"I'm amazing," Dylan says breezily, tucking his fingers through Mitch's belt loop. "Don't even front, Marns. You'd buy a whole album of me singing."

"He'd pay money to not have to listen to it, probably," Connor says, wandering over. "Dyls, man, I love you, but nobody wants to hear you sing."

"You're way worse," Dylan says immediately.

Connor nods. "But I admit it."

Mitch laughs at the betrayed look on Dylan's face. "Sorry," he says, patting Dylan's hand where it's still hooked around his hip. "Stick to hockey, maybe."

"If you say so," Dylan says, sighing really dramatically. "I'll never forget my first love, though."

"Which was… hockey," Connor points out, laughing when Dylan reaches out to facewash him. "Don't hate me because it's true, Stromer."

"I like Mitch better today," Dylan announces, tugging until Mitch stumbles to stand right in front of him. He wraps his other arm all the way around Mitch's waist and hooks his chin over Mitch's shoulder. Mitch leans back into him and smiles smugly at Connor, who pouts like his life depends on it.

"I'm sorry," he whines, blinking super-wide eyes at them. "Can you ever forgive me for insulting your terrible singing and saying that you're pretty okay at hockey?"

" _Pretty okay_ ," Dylan mutters. "You hear this shit, Marns? Are you hearing this?"

"I'm hearing it," Mitch acknowledges. "That's a pretty weak apology, Davo. Maybe try again?"

Connor's lips twitch but he doesn't break. "Please, oh please," he says, in what might be the driest tone of voice Mitch has ever heard from him. He presses a hand to his heart. "I won't be able to go on if you don't love me."

"Davo, get a room, oh my god," Jack calls from where he has absolutely no room to talk, given the way Noah's draped over his shoulders.

"But Stromer likes Marns better," Connor replies, turning his whining in Jack's direction.

"So drag them both in with you," Jack retorts. "Just don't make me witness any of it."

Mitch feels Dylan tense a little behind him, so he grins as wide and sleazy as he knows how and tilts his head at Jack. "Is this where I point out that we're staying in Hanny's basement?"

"No sex in the basement," Noah says immediately. "It's a rule."

Jack starts laughing. "It actually is," he says. "Like, you have no idea, we both got The Talk from his parents two summers ago, about how we weren't allowed to bring girls into the basement unless we kept the door open and all the lights on."

Mitch waggles his eyebrows. "I notice a complete lack of girls in your suggestion," he says, elbowing Dylan, who finally snorts and shakes his head.

"I promise not to deflower anyone in your basement, Hanny," Dylan drawls.

Connor coughs. "When you say 'deflower'..."

"Oh my god," Jack shouts, horrified. "Stop. Stop talking, I don't want to know, oh my _god_ -"

He keeps yelling, but Mitch is laughing too hard to make out what he's saying.

-0-

Jack makes them do the ranger program at the bridge, too, as some sort of revenge for making him think about them having sex or something. Mitch points out that Jack's the one who brought it up, but Jack scowls so hard that Mitch is a little afraid his face is going to collapse in on itself and make an angry black hole, so he lets it go.

Noah's parents have them pick up a bunch of pizzas on the way home. Dylan grins over the back of his seat at Mitch and jerks his head at Jack's car, where he can see Connor gesticulating wildly. "How much you wanna bet he's bitching about eating pizza two nights in a row?"

"I'm not taking that bet," Mitch says instantly.

Noah just laughs. "My mom keeps a bunch of cooked chicken breasts in the fridge," he says. "If it's gonna be an international emergency, we have that as a backup plan."

"Good," Dylan says firmly. "Because he'd eat the pizza, but we would definitely have to hear about it all night."

"May chicken breasts save us all," Mitch says solemnly.

"Amen," Noah says, reaching back for a fistbump.

Dinner goes fine; Connor happily reheats a chicken breast, and Mitch isn't really surprised when Noah does, too. He doesn't feel at all guilty about eating more pizza, because vacation means cheat days, but he doesn't chirp them about it, either.

They all relocate to the basement after they finish eating and cleaning up. Mitch is the good kind of tired; he's warm, he's full, and he got a decent workout walking around in the heat without doing enough to really wipe him out. It's the most natural thing in the world to sit on the sofa and slump into Connor's side.

Connor throws an arm over Mitch's shoulders. "Sleepy?" he asks quietly, teasing.

"Maybe I am," Mitch says. He's nowhere near tired enough to sleep, but he's not particularly interested in moving, either. "Gonna let me crash on you again?"

"Probably," Connor says, shrugging the shoulder Mitch isn't leaning on. "I mean, I'm pretty comfortable."

"I've slept on worse beds," Mitch agrees.

"Gross," Jack comments as he sprawls in the recliner. "What would be a worse bed than McDavid?"

"I will tell you, and you will never be able to un-know," Mitch says. Jack opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Mitch barrels on. "I slept in Dvorak's gear bag once."

There's a moment of shocked silence before Noah repeats, sounding horrified, " _In_?"

"In," Mitch repeats, satisfied. "Won almost two hundred bucks."

"Not worth it," Dylan says. Mitch isn't sure if he sounds impressed or grossed out. "How did you not die?"

Mitch shrugs. "Superior lungs?"

"That's disgusting," Jack says. "But I guess you're not wrong. Even Davo isn't as gross as that."

"Thanks," Connor says dryly. "I'm touched."

"You should be," Jack says. "Although maybe not touched by Marns. There's not enough disinfectant in the world."

"Hey," Mitch protests.

Connor leans over and sticks his face into Mitch's hair, breathing in deeply. "He doesn't smell like gear bag," he reports.

Dylan laughs. "I don't think you can even smell that smell anymore," he says. "You spend too much time in locker rooms, man. It's, like, a natural smell to you."

Connor tugs at Mitch's shoulder until he leans across Connor's body. He has to loop an arm up around Connor's neck to support himself, and he raises an eyebrow up at Connor because what the fuck, but Connor's looking at Dylan.

"Smell," he insists, patting Mitch's hair.

"Can we maybe not all smell me?" Mitch asks, a little bewildered. "I promise, I've showered since then. A lot, actually. It was a year and a half ago."

Dylan ignores him and leans over, pushing his face into Mitch's hair. "Smells like hair," he confirms without moving away.

Mitch cleverly disguises his shiver by letting go of Connor's neck and falling across his lap, landing with his head on Dylan's thigh. He grins up at Dylan's surprised expression. "Oh, look. I found a lap to lay in."

"You three are disgusting," Jack says flatly. "Still no sex in the basement. This is just Netflix time, not Netflix and chill, are we all clear on this?"

"Better not put anything exciting on, then," Connor says, settling a hand on Mitch's abs. Mitch wasn't really expecting him to roll with the whole laps thing, so he tenses for a second before relaxing again. He shifts into it when Dylan starts petting his hair, and Jack makes a truly offended noise.

"We're watching _Ice Road Truckers_ ," he declares. "Hanny, back me up on this."

"I'm not usually one to support your terrible reality TV addiction," Noah says, staring at them on the sofa, "but you know what? Yes. _Ice Road Truckers_."

It's definitely not the kind of show that would put anyone in the mood to do anything remotely _exciting_ , to use Connor's term, even if Jack and Noah weren't seeing things where there was nothing to see. It's just comfortable, stretching out across the sofa, Dylan's hand stroking through his hair while Connor rubs absently at his stomach, his touch just heavy enough that it doesn't tickle. The show is as boring as Mitch figured it would be, so he's not really surprised to find himself struggling to stay awake by the time the second episode starts playing.

"Just go to sleep," Dylan murmurs, sliding his hand down to slip gently over Mitch's eyes. "You're not missing anything. I promise."

"I should move," Mitch says, even as his eyelids fall closed. "So I don't have to later."

"Nah," Dylan says, pulling his hand back. Mitch opens his eyes in time to see Dylan's fond expression. "Just crash, Mitch. Don't worry about it."

"We've got you," Connor adds, tapping at Mitch's stomach.

"Kay," Mitch mumbles, turning his head so he can press his face against Dylan's stomach. "Night."

He's out before he hears the _Ice Road Truckers_ intro end. Thank god for small mercies.

-0-

He wakes up to… well.

The overhead lights in the basement are out; the television is on, but the sound is low enough that it's barely audible at all. It's the only light in the room, though, and it's flickering across Connor and Dylan's faces as they make out.

There's no part of Mitch that's surprised by what he's seeing, not really. Maybe it's because he's still half-asleep, but he doesn't feel any particular need to move; he's comfortable, and they're his best friends, and he knows they haven't before but he knows they trust him enough to do it now, with him right there. He's overwhelmingly, incredibly fond of both of them.

It's Dylan who notices first; Mitch isn't sure if he moved, or if Dylan's just that tuned in, but it's not long at all before he's pulling back from Connor and looking down. "Hey," he says, and his fingers return to Mitch's hair, rubbing at his scalp. "Good nap?"

"Yeah," Mitch says. "You, uh, want me to go find my bed now?"

Connor's the one to respond, laughing a little breathlessly. "No, we," he says, and then he's shifting, balancing on Dylan's shoulder so he can lean in and press his mouth against Mitch's.

Mitch runs a hand up Connor's arm when Connor doesn't immediately pull away, lets Dylan tilt his head for him so Connor can get a better angle. He goes from mostly asleep to really, really not in almost record time; whoever Connor's been kissing has taught him well, because he knows exactly what he's doing. Mitch tangles his fingers in Connor's shirt and kisses back for all he's worth, and it's not until Connor pulls back to stare down at him that Mitch thinks to wonder what's going on.

"So," he starts, but Connor just ducks in to press another quick kiss against his lips before pulling back.

"Hey," Dylan says, and when Mitch looks up he's smiling, eyes dark. "You should sit up."

"Should I?" Mitch manages.

Dylan nods, still with that smile on his face. "You're too far away. C'mere."

Part of Mitch thinks this must be a really specific, really realistic dream, but when he lets Connor help him sit up, _Ice Road Truckers_ is still playing on the television. His subconscious has better taste, or at least he hopes it does.

Mitch scoots back into Dylan's lap, holding his breath a little, but Dylan doesn't hesitate to lean right in and kiss him. It would be impossible to keep himself from comparing how Connor kisses to how Dylan does, so he doesn't try; Dylan's more assertive, more handsy, but as Mitch leans into it he hears Connor exhale and feels fingers dancing up his spine. It's electric, amazing; Mitch can't help but shiver and press back against Connor's hand while Dylan does his best to take him to pieces.

Mitch has to break away because breathing is, unfortunately, still a thing he has to do. He turns his head to look at Connor, then turns back to Dylan. "Mind clueing me in here?" he finally asks.

Dylan shrugs a little. "It fits," he says, like it's that simple.

"It does," Connor agrees, and maybe - maybe it is.

Mitch swallows. "Yeah?"

"Unless you think it doesn't," Dylan adds. "But if you're on board, then - yeah."

"Yeah," Connor says. He's rubbing at Mitch's neck now, little circles just above the collar of his shirt. "This works, with us. With all of us."

"It does," Mitch says, and he doesn't know why he's so sure, but he knows it like he knows his own name. "It fits. It works."

"Good," Dylan says, and he leans back in to kiss Mitch breathless again.

They trade off kissing for a while; Mitch settles more or less in Dylan's lap, leaning past him to kiss Connor, sitting back on his heels to watch Connor kiss Dylan. It feels like forever, like the night's just going to keep going until they manage to get their fill of each other, but eventually Connor pulls away from him and yawns.

"Sorry," he says, clearly embarrassed. "Not that I'm not having a good time, but…"

"But it's half past two in the morning?" Dylan teases, lifting a hand to trace Connor's mouth. "Sleep is probably a good idea. I'm pretty sure Eichs has more history on tap for tomorrow."

Connor groans and drops his head to Dylan's shoulder. "Why?"

"The history is your fault," Mitch reminds him, carding a hand through Connor's hair. "C'mon, let's go figure out how to jam all of us into one bed."

Connor sighs as he stands up, then reaches down to help Mitch off of Dylan's lap. He laughs as he stumbles into Connor's side, punch-drunk and happy, and Connor just smiles and loops an arm around his waist. Dylan stands and ducks in to kiss Mitch, then Connor, before lacing his fingers through Mitch's and leading them to the other side of the basement.

The bed-sharing takes a little while to figure out; for all that Mitch is the smallest of the three of them, he's not a small person. They have to push two of the beds together, and Mitch is suddenly reminded of a few nights ago, the three of them curled around each other across two lounge chairs. He laughs as he curls into Dylan's side, reaching across to grab Connor's hand and lace their fingers together.

"Let's try not to fall this time," he says, pressing his smile into Dylan's shoulder.

"I think we're good," Dylan says, turning to kiss Mitch's forehead.

"I think we're great," Connor says, clearly already half asleep. "We're gonna be. We are."

Mitch closes his eyes and smiles wider. He can live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> -all my love and thanks to ari, as always, for being the beta of my dreams. you're my significant otter. <3
> 
> -yes, i am aware that mitch uses one name for people in his head and another out loud most of the time. internal narrative vs external speech patterns, lalala.
> 
> -in case you haven't seen the interview i referenced at the beginning: [mitch has no chill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoRy4nycHis).
> 
> -"big kids scare the heck outta me" is a real song. i refuse to link to it.  
> ETA: it has com to my attention that people apparently have left this fic thinking i was referencing some sort of kidz bop version of MCR's "teenagers." this is not the case. [here's the abomination in question.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJ9K6B47Wuo)
> 
> -the dylan and connor "[he just plays hockey](http://www.sportsnet.ca/hockey/juniors/possibilities-strome-mcdavids-zipline-adventure/)" thing did, in fact, happen.
> 
> -is jack eichel really secretly a huge US history nerd? ~~WHO KNOWS. not me.~~ SCRATCH THAT, IT'S TRUE. thanks so much to LadyoftheBookworms, who provided me with [this article](http://sabres.buffalonews.com/2015/06/24/nine-things-to-know-about-jack-eichel/). look at #6.
> 
> -eternal gratitude to S., whose boston-area knowledge led to the lexington and concord debacle. you're the greatest, friend. <3
> 
> -heatstroke is real, friends. noah's hypothetical "you will wake up in a sink in a public outdoor restroom" thing was me, except it was gettysburg. drink your gatorade, or you will be the cause of a medical incident at a national park. this has been a PSA.
> 
>  -if you have somehow missed the video with mitch and the snake and jack's entire aversion to the outdoors, do yourself a huge favor and [watch it now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjNlYDUNkbM). you will regret nothing. well, okay, it also features lawson crouse eating a worm, and that's regrettable, but the rest of it is amazing.
> 
> -[yes, dylan tried to sing lean on me, and yes, it was a disaster](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6ldZcLduiY). warning for pkane in the video.
> 
> -is the title of this part of my secret plan to get everyone to have feelings about at least one stan rogers song? MAYBE. i have no regrets.
> 
> -follow me [on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) for hockey. always hockey.


End file.
